The Things We Know
by Giselle Mossant
Summary: **COMPLETE** "You know, you can know a thing. You can know it with all your intellect and your common sense, but if your heart has doubts, you will always, always doubt." Whitney POV


TITLE: The Things We Know  
AUTHOR: Giselle Mossant  
E-MAIL ADDRESS: gisellemossant@hotmail.com  
WEBSITE: http://www.purebluesun.com/thetalon/  
RATING: PG-13 (mostly for language)  
CATEGORY: SRA  
SPOILERS: Not sure about specifics, but you're safe after   
"Nicodemus." Anything before and including is fair game.  
KEYWORDS: Not telling; proceed at your own risk! (I think it's   
much less ominous than that sounds, but YMMV. If you really must   
know, I give it away in my author's notes at the end of the   
story.)  
DISTRIBUTION: Please do not archive -- the full text of this   
story will be archived solely by the author at her site (mostly   
for version control issues). If you'd like to link to the story   
from your Web site, I'd be honored -- but drop me a line first,   
please.  
DISCLAIMER: Even if I could take them away from The WB, I'd never   
get them away from DC Comics.  
FEEDBACK: I would love to hear from you. LOVE.  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Thanks to Crude for the red-ink duties. More at   
the end.  
  
SUMMARY: "You know, you can know a thing. You can know it with   
all your intellect and your common sense, but if your heart has   
doubts, you will always, always doubt."  
  
  
The Things We Know  
by Giselle Mossant  
*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Look, there she is again.  
  
She looks good. I mean, really, really good. Especially since   
she has kids now. One or two, I don't remember. And she's still   
as slim as she was when she was 15. That's about all that's the   
same. She carries herself differently. Now, everything she   
wears looks tailor-made for her.  
  
It's strange to think that I used to know her. Hell, I more than   
"knew her." I wasn't just some acquaintance. I dated her. She   
was my =girlfriend=. Of course, that was a lifetime ago. And   
even then she'd been looking elsewhere. I only had her out of   
guilt, because of what my father had been going through. I know   
she felt she had to stick by me. She only admitted it the one   
time and she apologized later, but she couldn't even remember   
what she had said. I never forgot, though.  
  
She looks so cool and unapproachable in those sunglasses. Yeah,   
it must be the sunglasses. Blocking everyone else out. She   
doesn't have to pretend she sees you; she doesn't have to pretend   
she recognizes you. Sunglasses never used to be her style.   
She'd just as soon squint as put on a pair. But things have   
changed.  
  
This is twice in one week that she's graced us with her presence.   
It must be some kind of record. The reporters don't seem to be   
around. I wish they'd vacation somewhere else. Then I wouldn't   
have to see her, wouldn't be reminded.  
  
I still remember the day we broke up. I don't mean "remember" as   
in it's some foggy memory laced with Little League games and   
fishing trips with my dad. I mean that I remember nearly every   
detail with exact clarity, as if someone had taken a Polaroid of   
the occasion and stuck it in my brain.  
  
I'd been anticipating it. Dreading it, really. I'd known it was   
coming. I'd been a senior and she'd just finished her freshman   
year, and I was heading off to college. I might not have gotten   
scholarships to the schools of my choice, but I was going to play   
somewhere, and that was all that mattered. I was leaving. The   
last thing I wanted was to be stuck in this one-horse town   
forever. Ironic, isn't it?  
  
Anyway, it made sense that we'd break things off. I was going   
away to =college=, the perpetual party. I'd probably join a   
fraternity, meet a bunch of college girls, stay out late every   
night, and drink so much beer I could swim in it. By rights, I   
should have been the one itching to shed my noose. I should have   
been the one to take her aside and hesitantly start her name   
because I still cared about her and didn't want to hurt her   
feelings.  
  
The crazy thing was, part of me thought that we might be able to   
have a long-distance relationship. Try it out, at least -- what   
was the harm in that? If we tried and it didn't work, fine, we   
would break things off. But it seemed ludicrous to end a   
relationship that was going well just because I was leaving.   
Right?  
  
But maybe it wasn't going well. I'm ashamed to say that I   
honestly didn't know at that point where we stood. Maybe I   
hadn't wanted to admit it to myself right then, but I'd sensed   
her interest ebbing. I knew -- particularly after her slip that   
one time -- that she wasn't with me for the right reasons. But   
selfishly, I believed I could make her remember how she'd felt   
when we'd first started dating. Make her feel the things she'd   
felt when she agreed to go out with me in the first place.   
Rekindle her feelings.  
  
As it turned out, the breakup was completely anticlimactic. It   
was the night before I was going to catch a plane that would take   
me to my new career as a college student. Just a short pit stop   
on my way to becoming a world-famous athlete. I remember because   
I'd had an argument with my mother -- she thought that my last   
night at home ought to have been spent with my family. She must   
have forgotten what it was like to be 18 and in love. I argued   
that I'd see them at the airport the next day. My last night was   
for her.  
  
I'd chosen a really nice restaurant to take her to. I wore my   
nicest suit and presented her with one long-stemmed red rose.   
She looked absolutely breathtaking. I mean that I literally   
stopped breathing for a few moments when I saw her. She was   
wearing a black dress -- it wasn't tight or anything, but it was   
long and didn't have any sleeves, and she had this ... wispy   
scarf-thing around her neck. I have no idea what that's called,   
but it was sexy as hell.  
  
She thanked me for the rose and tucked her hand under my arm. I   
remember thinking at that moment that it would all be okay.   
Things felt too normal not to. She wouldn't have dressed so   
nicely if we were planning to break up, would she?  
  
I don't remember much about our meal, but I remember everything   
about the atmosphere and how she looked sitting across from me.   
There were two candles on the table, which lit up her smile and   
shadowed her eyes. She was everything intriguing and wonderful   
in a girl. She seemed relaxed, and fool that I was, I thought it   
was because she was glad to be with me. Pleased that I'd found a   
way out of Smallville. Happy because she knew that I'd come back   
for her as soon as I could.  
  
"I'll call you every weekend. I plan to visit a lot -- my family   
and you -- so we'll be seeing each other. It won't be so   
different. It's not that far, actually, really just a long car   
ri--"  
  
"Whitney," she said. I'll never forget the way she said my name.   
She sat back in her seat, and for the first time that night her   
entire face was in shadow. Her smile had disappeared. Her   
fingers began to fidget with her utensils -- one of her nervous   
habits.  
  
I knew what her nervous habits were. Didn't that count for   
something?  
  
"Whitney," she said again.  
  
What? What? Just say it, I wanted to shout. But I couldn't.   
Someone had poured Elmer's glue down my throat. I hoped I was   
overreacting. Maybe it wasn't what I thought.  
  
"Do you think that's a good idea? You'll be starting a whole new   
life, and I don't want to hold you back."  
  
She was putting it in terms that would do me the least damage,   
but God, I can't imagine how it could have hurt any more than it   
did. I wasn't stupid. I knew what she was saying. It wasn't   
about me. It was about her. Sure, maybe part of her did want me   
to move on, too; I had to believe that part of her wished the   
best for me. And if things were different I knew she had it in   
her to be selfless like that. After all, what was the whole   
latter part of our relationship but her being selfless? But I   
knew this wasn't it.  
  
God help me, I pretended to misunderstand. On the slim hope that   
I was wrong about her other motivations? To give her a hard   
time? It could have been either of those things. But I think,   
mostly, it was because I couldn't let it end that way. I needed   
her to tell me, right to my face, the truth. So I didn't just   
nod and let her go. Instead I said, "You wouldn't be holding me   
back. I love you. I want to make this work."  
  
Already, she was shaking her head, and when she looked at me her   
eyes were wet-looking. Even in the dimmed lighting I could see   
that. And even I couldn't fool myself into thinking she was   
teary from happiness at what I was saying or that she was sad I   
was leaving. They were tears of pity, maybe frustration. Tears   
from having to hurt me, maybe.  
  
I'd always known she'd break my heart one day. When we first   
started going out, she was this sweet, beautiful girl who had   
placed herself in my hands. It was my job to protect her, love   
her, save her. But if someone placed something priceless in your   
sweaty hands and told you to take care of it, what would you do?   
Trip and break it, of course.  
  
But I knew that despite that, or maybe even because of it, she   
had the power to gut me. By the very fact that she was pure and   
good, I knew my time with her had an expiration date. I had   
every reason to want to be with her; I couldn't think of even one   
reason for her to be with me.  
  
Not that she thought in those terms, of course. But I knew that   
one day she'd find someone better, worthier, more like her. I   
didn't know how right I was.  
  
When I dropped her off at home, I walked her to her door, for the   
last time. I was numb with grief. Everything I was doing   
tonight with her would be the last time. I kissed her goodbye --   
out of habit. I debated the entire drive whether I should, and   
decided that maybe she didn't want me to, so I wouldn't. But   
standing there on her porch, I automatically leaned down and   
kissed her.  
  
To her credit, she didn't pull away or flinch even the slightest.   
Maybe also out of habit. She didn't entirely return the kiss,   
either. Her lipstick had rubbed off by then, and her lips were   
smooth and soft under mine. I hoped, fleetingly, that mine   
weren't too chapped. She tasted faintly of regret and chocolate   
mousse.  
  
I don't care what you do, but please don't go out with Clark   
Kent. The words were on the tip of my tongue, but I held them   
in. My pride had been dented enough for one evening.  
  
"Goodbye," I said, embarrassed that I had kissed her; upset that   
she could let me go. She didn't say anything, but stood there as   
I made my way back to my car and drove away.  
  
I wouldn't see her for months. I returned to Smallville during   
Christmastime, feeling pretty good about myself. I'd thrown   
myself into football and school, and I was getting a lot of buzz   
about my playing. I thought about her now and again, but never   
let myself call her, and when I finally returned part of me   
thought that my new confidence and maturity might make her see me   
in a new light. And if she did, well, maybe I would consider   
giving her a call. If I even felt the same about her.  
  
I'd gone out a few times, with women who weren't at all like the   
high school girls I'd known. She would probably seem like a baby   
to me now. I spent a lot of time fantasizing about the moment we   
would see each other again. I would be indifferent and aloof; a   
man. She would be one of those vapid high school girls like   
those portrayed on TV. She would be awed by the confident man   
standing before her. I would be polite and gracious. She would   
wonder if I really remembered her at all, and she would regret   
that she had let me slip out of her grasp.  
  
Do I even need to say that that wasn't the way it happened? I'd   
been home for a week. So far, things had been great. Small   
towns have long memories, and I was still hailed as a hero. I   
hadn't seen her, hadn't even heard a thing about her. Pride   
wouldn't let me ask.  
  
Two days before Christmas, Lex Luthor had a party at his mansion   
and of course, anyone who was anyone was going, even me. A few   
buddies (guys I hadn't seen since graduation) and I would put in   
an appearance, we said, as if we had anything better to do.  
  
The party was in full swing by the time we got there, and we   
quickly found ourselves a couple of beers and a central place to   
situate ourselves. We never lacked for company, and everyone was   
in good spirits. I looked around every once in a while, trying   
to spot her, and it must have been a good hour before I finally   
did. She was just suddenly there, in my line of vision, without   
me having to turn or crane my neck. She was laughing with a   
couple of other girls.  
  
It turned out that all my assumptions were erroneous. She did   
not look like a baby. She looked ... stunning, like a gazelle in   
a herd of rhinos. She didn't look like a sophomore in high   
school; she looked more mature than the women I was used to   
seeing, older women who should have outshone her. She had her   
hair piled high on her head, a few curls escaping to frame her   
face. She was wearing a long, sequined red dress that molded her   
curves in the most enticing way possible. The little straps on   
that thing were probably just for show. Did she have breasts   
like that when we were going out?  
  
Seems I wasn't the only one who could grow up.  
  
As I watched, Clark Kent materialized beside her, two glasses of   
red wine -- no, punch -- in his hand. He handed one to her, and   
she took it with her right hand, so that her left could grasp his   
now-empty hand. Their fingers twined together, and they looked   
absolutely comfortable that way. The people they were with did   
not do a double-take; they did not look at each other and nudge.   
So. It had happened, then.  
  
You know, you can know a thing. You can know it with all your   
intellect and your common sense, but if your heart has doubts,   
you will always, always doubt. And right up until that moment, I   
hadn't truly believed that she would get together with Kent.   
Because that would mean that most likely, when she was with me,   
she had at some point probably wanted to be with him instead.   
And what guy wants to know that?  
  
It annoyed, but not surprised, me that I could still feel   
jealousy about her. I hadn't seen her in months and I had a new   
life, a life I was pretty happy with. And yet to see her with   
Kent, I wanted to punch walls. Or preferably, him.  
  
Someone jostled me from behind, probably from being jostled by   
someone else. There were that many people in the room. I turned   
out of reflex anyway, and was confronted by the lord of the manor   
(literally) himself.  
  
"Sorry about that," he said, then seemed to recognize me. "Oh,   
hey--" he stopped.  
  
"Whitney," I supplied.  
  
"Whitney, right," he said quickly. "Good to see you. It's been   
awhile. Enjoying the party?"  
  
"It's great." I knew he could barely recall who I was, but I   
returned the pleasantries. I was, after all, in his house,   
eating his food, enjoying his party. "How are things?" I asked,   
having no idea what to talk to him about, and being more than a   
little uncomfortable. Lex Luthor had a way of dissecting you   
with his shrewd gray eyes, as if he could strip away all the   
layers and see you for the vermin he knew you were.  
  
He shrugged. "Can't complain. You must be used to wild parties   
by now." He grinned.  
  
I grinned back, feeling a little more at ease. He'd always been   
a friend of Kent's, all because the lucky bastard happened to be   
there when Luthor drove off a bridge. Anyone who could swim   
could have dived in to save him from drowning, but Kent was the   
one who was there. Anyway, Kent had always been after my girl   
and Luthor had always supported his friend. But now that there   
was no longer any reason for us to be at odds, Lex Luthor almost   
seemed like a regular guy. A regular guy who owned the   
Metropolis Sharks. Or at least, his father did. "Yeah, I've   
been to one or two," I replied casually.  
  
"Ah, that's what I miss most about college," he said, raising his   
glass of wine in a toast. "The spree killing of brain cells and   
being too stupid the next day to remember having done it."  
  
He was still smiling so I kept smiling as well. "Right."  
  
"Well, enjoy the rest of the party." He downed his drink and   
from nowhere a server appeared with a tray to take the empty   
glass from him.  
  
I wasn't sure what had just happened there. My mind was kind of   
muddled. He'd sounded nice enough and his manner had certainly   
been friendly enough. So why did I feel like I'd just gotten the   
raw end of some deal?  
  
Suspicious, I watched him make his way around the room, finally   
getting to her and Kent. He joined in the conversation easily,   
and when he spoke everyone paid attention. After a while Kent   
excused himself, and he and Luthor exchanged meaningful glances.   
Once Kent was gone, I saw Luthor turn to her and gesture politely   
toward the dance floor. Ahh, I got it now. Kent had to go off   
to do whatever he had to do, and Luthor, as his best friend, was   
to entertain Kent's girl and keep all would-be suitors away. She   
nodded shyly, and he took her hand and led her to the dance   
floor, which parted as if by magic to make way for them.  
  
I wondered what Luthor would do if I tried to cut in. Probably   
just snap his fingers and four guards would appear to haul my ass   
out of there. Kent had certainly lucked out that day, to have   
made a powerful ally in Lex Luthor -- a man who wasn't afraid of   
anyone.  
  
I never spoke to her again. Does that surprise you? I have to   
admit, it surprises me a little. We're from the same town --   
you'd think we'd run into each other here and there every once in   
a while, but no -- not one single time. Of course, we move in   
vastly different circles now. Now I can hardly believe I ever   
knew her at all.  
  
I moved on with my life. I thought about her, sure, but who   
doesn't think about a girl they were once in love with, every now   
and then? By the time I graduated from college, I'd had my share   
of girlfriends, and I had been seeing one girl, Lauren, pretty   
seriously for about a year. I didn't get recruited to play on   
any pro teams -- an elbow injury my junior year had taken care of   
that -- so we contemplated our future. My degree was in history,   
but I couldn't see myself as a teacher, and coaching football was   
too painful a concept at the time. When my father died   
unexpectedly (a death after such a long illness is should be   
expected, but it never is), it seemed that the choice had been   
made for us. I moved back to Smallville, married Lauren, and now   
I own and run Fordham's. It seems this was my destiny, and I'd   
been a fool to try to postpone -- or put off -- what was meant to   
be. I could only run for so long.  
  
I know this now.  
  
By the time all this came about, she was gone. Hell, so were   
most of the people I'd known. Off to college or somewhere else,   
to find their places in the real world. I don't mind saying it   
was a bit lonely for a time, but then they started trickling   
back. I was glad to see them. Even people I hadn't known all   
that well suddenly seemed like old friends. It's amazing what a   
few years and some perspective will do.  
  
One day, my kids will go to the high school I attended, and   
perhaps I'll even coach my son at that same school. Lately I've   
been feeling the urge to get back to the sport I used to love,   
and I know the school's interested. I can leave the store in   
good hands with Frank, who's a hell of a manager. Lauren's fine   
with it, and I think maybe it's time to start a new chapter in my   
life.  
  
Maybe then, I'll stop thinking about the past. Or at least,   
maybe I'll remember it more like an old friend and less like   
something that went wrong somewhere.  
  
Not all of us are meant for the big city or the big, bright   
lights. The only big, bright lights I know are the ones that   
accent a football field. It's a hard, cold world out there.   
It's difficult to imagine her making her place in it, when all I   
can remember is the sweet, doe-eyed girl I used to know. I guess   
I never saw the diamonds beyond the glitter.  
  
When their marriage was announced it made all the papers. The   
wedding was proclaimed as "the event of the century" -- I think I   
read that there were over 2,000 guests. When Lauren and I got   
married, it was her, me, the minister, and two witnesses. And I   
wouldn't change one single thing. If there's one thing in my   
life I've never regretted, it's Lauren. Does that seem contrary   
to everything I've been saying? Probably. It's human nature. I   
can't undo what I've done or what I know, and in my head it all   
fits somewhere. What I do know: A wedding with 2,000 guests?   
That's not me.  
  
I wouldn't have thought it was her, either. I hear she's some   
big-name fashion designer now. Partly why the wedding was such a   
big deal, I guess. I couldn't read anymore; it was just too   
strange. Does any of that sound like her? Doesn't to me. But   
maybe that's not such a surprise.   
  
You see, I knew what I knew, but I don't think I knew her at all.   
Kent tried to tell me a few times, but I never listened. She was   
stronger than I thought, he said. I didn't give her enough   
credit. She wasn't a fragile girl who couldn't stand up for   
herself. On the contrary, she was passionate, fiery, locked up   
like Pandora's box, and she wanted to be set free. That's what   
she'd been looking for. As it turns out, Kent may have scratched   
under the surface, but he didn't have the key, either.  
  
I wonder how long it took her to find that out. I wonder how   
long it took her to realize what she wanted, then to go out and   
get it. Because I know she must have made a calculated effort.   
She could not be in love with him. No, I have to believe that if   
there's one thing Lana Luthor knows, it's how to get what she   
wants. Her husband just got played, that's all. It's the only   
explanation.  
  
I'll prove it. I'll walk out of this store right now and take in   
some sun. She'll see me when she comes out, and I'll look   
straight at her. Then we'll see.  
  
Here she is, still with her sunglasses on, holding a small brown   
bag. She's moving fast; she's not going to look around. She'll   
never see me. The urge to call her name is strong, but I can't,   
no more than I could call out the mayor's name just because I   
know what it is. She unlocks her car door -- a shiny, new-  
looking silver BMW -- and turns her head. And pauses.  
  
I'm holding my breath. Does she see me? Does she recognize me?   
I can't tell anything with those glasses hiding her face. She   
steps away from the car and starts walking toward me. Even now,   
I'm unsure. Is she going to walk right by and look at whatever   
caught her eye in the store window behind me? Is there someone   
she knows ...?  
  
"Whitney?"  
  
I'm 18 years old again. I can hear that same voice saying my   
name. Same inflection, same everything.  
  
"Is that you?"  
  
She stops a couple of feet from me and pulls up her sunglasses,   
letting them rest on her head. She squints; the sun is high   
above us.  
  
I find my voice. "Yeah. Lana, God. How are you?" It's the   
stupidest thing imaginable to say, and the only thing I can say   
to her. This woman standing in front of me is an unknown entity,   
a strange amalgam of someone I know and someone I've never seen   
before.  
  
She smiles, and it's the same Lana smile -- where's the guile? I   
look for hardness in her eyes, for some piece of evidence that   
would prove her disingenuous nature, but I only see her tawny   
brown orbs looking back, and they're clear -- nothing sharp to   
cut me, nothing that says she's judging me in her mind.  
  
She has crinkles in the corners of her eyes and laugh lines   
around her mouth; Lana has aged, just as I have. She's still   
beautiful. And what I see in her eyes hasn't aged at all. If   
the eyes really are the windows to the soul, then Lana has   
nothing to fear when her time on Earth is over.  
  
I just can't understand it. Is this, too, a deception? Am I   
just a really poor judge of character?  
  
"I'm fine, Whitney," say says, and sounds sincere. "How about   
yourself? You look wonderful. I don't think you've changed a   
bit." She seems slightly amazed that I'm standing in front of   
her; we'll both just stand here, gawking.  
  
"Yeah, well, thanks. You too. It's -- it's good to see you,   
Lana."  
  
"How long have you been back?"  
  
"Oh--" I shrug. "Since I graduated, actually. Dad died and I   
came back to take over the store."  
  
"I'm so sorry." Her eyes are tender. "It was good of you to   
come back; your mother must have really appreciated the help."  
  
I shrug. "Didn't have much choice. I injured my elbow junior   
year, and any hope I had of playing pro ball ended then." I   
expected to feel the familiar stab of regret that always   
accompanied the telling of this story, but it never came. Odd.  
  
"I'm sorry to hear that; you always were extremely talented."   
She seems embarrassed. "That doesn't help, does it?"  
  
Her discomfort actually makes me feel better about it all. I   
don't want her to feel uncomfortable; I don't feel bad about it,   
so she should be at ease. "I'm over it. It was a long time   
ago." I'm finally starting to feel the truth of those words.   
Seeing Lana here, like this -- it's as if I'm finally getting to   
lay some things to rest.  
  
"Well -- I can't believe I haven't bumped into you before now,"   
she exclaims. "We live in the same darn town."  
  
"Well, not really. You're from the big city now," I tease.  
  
She wrinkles her nose, and sighs. "I guess. I think I'll always   
be a small-town girl at heart. And we like it here. It's quiet.   
Being here ... it even calms the kids down, gives them some   
perspective."  
  
"Perspective," I echo. "How many kids do you have?"  
  
"Two," she replies. "A girl and a boy."  
  
"Hey, me too!" I exclaim, as if this were some amazing feat that   
we had accomplished together. I feel ridiculous, but her big   
grin actually makes me feel better.  
  
"Is the older one your daughter?" she enthuses.  
  
"No -- my son," I say, and her face actually falls. I think   
about the kids we might have had together, if things had been   
different. Our daughter would look like her; our son would look   
like me. Clearly this is purely rooted in fantasy, because   
that's never the way it works. "What's in the bag?" I ask,   
gesturing to the brown sack.  
  
"This?" She holds it up, and for the first time, I notice the   
diamond ring that glitters on her finger. It's smaller than you   
would think; not ostentatious but simple. The way it shines in   
the sunlight, though -- it's obviously of unimaginable quality.   
Lauren would probably be able to tell you karat size, price, and   
purity after the glimpse I just had. "It's ice cream."  
  
Lana had just been to Cissy's Homemade Ice Cream -- I should have   
known, the direction she came from. But I suppose that was the   
last place I would have pictured her. "For the kids?" I ask.  
  
She laughs and shakes her head. "For Lex. He loves Cissy's   
mocha almond."  
  
I stiffen a bit. I'd forgotten. It hits me just then; I am   
standing here talking to Lex Luthor's wife. This pretty,   
composed girl-woman with the shiny rock on her finger, this angel   
I've never forgotten, belongs to someone else. She married   
someone else. She shared a life with someone else. She had   
borne that someone else's children. Lana Lang. What a surreal   
thought. "That's nice of you, to come into town to get it for   
him."  
  
She laughs again. "Are you kidding? I wanted to. Now he's   
stuck with the monsters and they're running HIM ragged instead of   
me."  
  
I have to smile at that.  
  
"Well, I better go," she says, and despite myself, I'm   
disappointed. I'm sad our time together has been so short. "Ice   
cream," she explains, and I nod. "Don't be a stranger. Come by   
anytime. Bring your wife and kids; we'd love to see you."  
  
I believe her. Lex Luthor may not be thrilled to see me -- if he   
even remembers who I am -- but Lana's invite is genuine, and so   
is my reply. "I will."  
  
Lana waves, slipping her sunglasses back on. I suddenly realize   
that it really is bright outside.  
  
As she drives away, I raise a hand in farewell. I notice that a   
man is next to me, watching her drive off as well. He doesn't   
look familiar, and he's dressed far too nice for a regular   
resident of Smallville. No one dresses like that unless they're   
... well, a Luthor. Sometimes we get tourists from the city who   
want to see "the countryside."  
  
"That was Lana Luthor, wasn't it?" He sounds slightly awestruck.   
I can't hold back the grin. Here the guy leaves Metropolis,   
where the Luthors usually live, and ends up seeing one of them in   
the quiet little town he decided to go to for kicks. "You know   
her?"  
  
Yes, I do. And no. I don't. "She's ... an old friend," I   
answer finally, and the words sound right.  
  
The man peers at me, as if trying to determine whether I'm   
telling the truth. Then he holds up a hand, trying to block out   
the sun to get a better look at my face.  
  
"You should get some sunglasses," I advise. "The sun can get   
pretty bright around these parts, without all the smog acting as   
a filter."  
  
I smile and duck back inside.  
  
A few days later, Lauren hands me a newspaper along with a raised   
eyebrow. "Something you want to tell me?" she asks.  
  
I have no idea what she's talking about, and take the paper from   
her. It's a supermarket tabloid. My mouth drops -- there, right   
on the front page, is a large color photo of me and Lana from the   
day I spoke to her on the sidewalk sporting the headline: "LANA   
LUTHOR FANS OLD FLAME." I scan the article, which is a lot of   
fluff, just background on Lana and speculation about me. "He   
would only identify himself as an old friend," wrote John Boylan,   
who is apparently the author of this piece of crap.  
  
Of course, John Boylan was the tourist, who wasn't really a   
tourist at all. Somehow, this fails to surprise me. I doubt Lex   
or Lana will be surprised, either. This kind of thing probably   
happens to them all the time.  
  
Lauren's been waiting for my reaction, and when she doesn't get   
one right away, she puts her hands on her hips. "Well?" I can   
tell I've made her suspicious by not immediately laughing or   
offering an explanation.  
  
"Me and Lana Luthor? Come on, Laure. You know I haven't seen   
her since we were kids."  
  
"Hmmph," she says, but allows me to pull her into my arms.  
  
"Things aren't always what they seem," I say, and kiss the top of   
her head.  
  
In five minutes, Lana melted away years of disillusionment and   
bitterness. I should be resentful that she was able to do that,   
maybe, but I'm not. As much as I hate to admit it, Kent was   
right; I hadn't credited her strength. I'd assumed the worst had   
gotten the better of her; I'd never considered that maybe it was   
the other way around -- maybe she had gotten the better of it.  
  
Or maybe it's even simpler than that. Maybe it's just that Lana   
is human, like the rest of us. She cries when she's hurt; she   
laughs when she's happy; she tries to be a good person; she makes   
mistakes; she ages; she falls in love; she remembers old friends;   
she takes care of her family.  
  
And really, it never gets much more complicated than that.  
  
=End=  
  
  
4/12/02  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Wow. This story represents many firsts: My first   
story =completed= outside of the X-Files genre/fandom/whatever;   
my first Smallville fic; my first Lex/Lana foray; my first ...   
well, you get the picture. Who knew that all this would come at   
the hands of Whitney Fordham, arguably the least sympathetic   
character on the show? (At least Lionel Luthor is so ruthless   
that you can't help but love to hate him.) This is my attempt to   
give him some screen time.  
  
I couldn't figure this story out. I knew what I wanted, but   
couldn't seem to get it there. I kept fumbling my way around in   
the dark. Thanks to Crude for holding the flashlight. It's due   
to her that I stopped tearing my hair out by the roots.  
  
**Feedback welcomed and cherished at gisellemossant@hotmail.com**  
  
Thank you for reading!! 


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